Mark Hix’s Tramshed is a train wreck

Restaurant Review: With its vaulted, tiled, post-industrial building and
Damien Hirst artworks, Tramshed is undeniably jaw-dropping. But the food isn’t as impressive.

Cock and bull story: The food at Mark Hix’s new restaurant seems to impress everyone. Everyone but us

There’s a whole lot of love out there for Tramshed, Mark Hix’s new… oops, I nearly called it a concept. I’d say that’s down to two main factors. Firstly, some people are easily impressed, and with its vaulted, tiled, post-industrial building and Damien Hirst artworks – what, you haven’t heard about Cock And Bull, a whole formaldehyded cow garnished with an actual cockerel dominating the huge space? – this former shed for trams is undeniably jaw-dropping.

If you’ve never been to the glorious Wapping Food, that is. Or know that Hirst’s seminal work, Beautiful Psychedelic Gherkin Exploding Tomato Sauce All Over Your Face, Flame Grilled Painting 2003, is currently being displayed at the Leicester Square branch of Burger King.

And secondly, people – food-writery people – tend to be chums with Mr Hix. It’s why they’re frequently prepared to overlook the smug cliqueyness of his city-centre outfits (Hix Soho) or the mediocrity of his others (Hix Belgravia). I’m sorry, Mark, I’m sure you’re lovely but I don’t get it.

He’s certainly not daft, though. I can’t think of a restaurant selling steak to a City clientele that hasn’t succeeded. This is the only clientele that’s unlikely to baulk at a steak – ‘mighty marbled Glenarm sirloin’ – costing £40 for 500g (about comparable with Hawksmoor and Goodman). This is what we order and, catching sight of the miserable sliver, 250g apparently, served to our neighbours, I’m bloody glad we do. At least we get a decent, thick slab of meat; I’d have been gibberingly livid to spend £20 on that weaselly little article.

The shtick here is the brazier-hot, limited-choice menu: can you guess what it is yet? The huge Hirst Cow and Chicken cartoon offers a further clue: yep, beef or roast chicken. There’s starters but you must order them all: a vast, pneumatic Yorkshire pudding with ‘whipped chicken livers’, an adjective that suggests fluffy and buttery rather than this stiff, granular, underseasoned little dollop. There’s a smoked fish salad – the fish is unmemorable, I’ve forgotten it – with ‘landcress’ (like a less flavourful watercress). Only some delicious, lemony-marinated artichoke hearts really do the job.

The steak is good (‘We serve it medium rare,’ says our server. They’re big on telling you how it is: the menu also demands no photographs). But it’s not brilliant and, for this money, I want brilliant. Our poussin for one is a dry little beastie, about enough meat on it to feed a toddler. The chickens are presented as they’re roasted, impaled on a specially spiked dish, their legs wiggling tragically in the air. I try sucking on a claw. It reminds me of when I used to be able to bite my own toenails.

But the place is mobbed. Maybe it’s a Proustian thing, popular because the food alchemically apes childhood’s greatest hits: the nugget of stuffing rammed in the chicken’s jacksie tastes like Paxo; the gravy that pools round the bird bears a haunting resemblance to Chicken Bisto. The fries are configured exactly like Maccy D’s, with a seasoning that suggests Knorr stock cubes. It’s spooky and, if deliberate, some kind of warped genius. Upsides are first-class Bloody Marys; the – fnar – ‘cock shot’ (vodka and consommé, a play on the bull shot) is a lively little number; and I unreservedly adore the crunchy, scrumpy-battered onion rings.

Service is charming but overstretched. Drinks don’t arrive: ‘I know,’ says our server, rolling his eyes, ‘you’d think they’d put more than one person on the bar.’ He also says conspiratorially: ‘Don’t order the house wine.’ Our neighbours, of a less sunny disposition than us, complain about everything, from the low-slung seating (I almost disappear), to the unchilled wine which dribbles on to the table from chunky jugs. However, we seem to be in the minority; everyone else loves Tramshed. But, then, everyone seems to enjoy a cock and bull story, too.